


Summer Reds

by FancyLadySnackCakes



Series: Kinktober 2020 [5]
Category: You're Next (2011)
Genre: Adrenaline sex, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Exhibitionism, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Gore, Knife Play, Murder, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Pain, Rape/Non-con Elements, female centric violence, heat - Freeform, sweaty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:54:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26700991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyLadySnackCakes/pseuds/FancyLadySnackCakes
Summary: Summary: In which the Lamb wants to extend the hunt with a plucky, sweaty mechanic. It’s her that’s next, whether she likes it or not.A/N: Day 6 of Kinktober! Kink: Heat/Sweat. Also, I put together a sorta 60s & 70s playlist that's fit for the more jaunty of serial killers. Used it while I was writing this one. <3 https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3STm8MJXy5lA4cSaudIcoR?si=ME4jQNaOSBKtPv-YblxdGA
Relationships: Lamb Mask (You're Next)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Kinktober 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1958581
Comments: 14
Kudos: 52





	Summer Reds

A high whistle ricochets between the cypress trunks, amplifying the goading call until she's flying over her feet, too afraid to stop for anything but a broken ankle.

Maisie runs. She sprints towards nothing and everything, taking every  _ thwack _ of thorny shrubbery to her face, thighs and arms. Reeds break open the thin skin over her shins, yet still, she keeps going. Despite the blood running down her cheeks and the grit glued to her lashes, she continues onward. The thick, murky soup of Florida summer nights makes sweat pour into her eyes, attracting gnats and mosquitoes that  _ buzz buzz buzz _ and slurp salt straight from her pores. 

Bounding through sawgrass and slimy, wet undergrowth, it’s the heat that begins slowing her down to a trot. Maisie wails and sniffles, but swallows anxiety and throws herself faster into this fucked up game of cat and mouse… because the other option is losing, and she doesn't lose.

_ She won’t lose. _

A clawing branch snags her shirt, swinging backwards into a tree trunk, snaring her in a tangle of cotton threads and knobby, skinny wood. She curses, snaps the thick branch, but ends up shouldering out her overall straps and shirt when a fiberglass cross-bolt zips through the darkness. The gauzy, lilac material snaps back into the clutter of sharp limbs, left as an ornament for the Lamb. For a second, she breathes cleanly as tepid air cools the second-skin of sweat beneath her arms and down her stomach.

Maisie dashes, half-naked, blindly continuing ever forward. Sooner or later, she'll meet the highway, or a homestead… _ or something… _ maybe even a checkered finish line set up just for her.

Another sharp, baiting whirr pierces her brain. Not a moment later, a second bolt shoots and  _ thunks _ in a tree trunk half a foot from her intended path.

She screams, running, but a responding whistle mocks her into open-mouth sobs.

The burn in her thighs and calves nearly overpowers the way the midnight heat strangles oxygen from her lungs. 

Carbon dioxide builds. Her lips go numb. 

If it wasn't for adrenaline and fear of the bloodshed behind her, she'd have collapsed from heatstroke a mile back, but she hasn't…  _ and she won't... _

Behind her, hulking boots  _ crunch _ and  _ snap _ detritus into the endless quagmire. It's been miles, yet he's infatuated, hungry like a wolf spent too long in sheep's clothing. 

_ His knuckles brush through tear tracks spilling down one cheek, panting behind plastic over all the beautiful fear she leaks. The bodies of her coworkers lay around them—a break bar lodged in Simon’s right eye—while Charlotte lays over the hood of a gutted El Camino, head bashed in with a baseball bat. _

_ The Lamb runs fingers down the slope of her throat, gliding through sheens of sweat and motor oil to finger the clasp of an overall suspender. Carefully, he empties all her pockets: assorted allen wrenches, spearmint gum wrappers, dirty rags of transmission fluid, and an engraved pocket knife. _

_ “D’d’don’t…” she begs disgustingly, “please…” _

_ He looks back at his animal friends with a methodical tilt of his head, exposing a shaven scalp and gaunt jaw-line that disappears beneath the white, plastic lamb. With two steps to the side, he turns back to watch her stumble over Simon. Maisie glances back at the Lamb in revulsion, then runs.  _

It should be impossible—the extent this monster has gone for an extra thrill before a meal. Unnecessary combat gear, leather boots with tight laces and thick canvas black covering his arms and legs should weigh him down...  _ to go so far in this heat… this oppressive fucking heat in what he's wearing? And for what?? _

Never has the fickle nature of life felt so certain.

"Jesus—" She squeals over a hot exhale, then trips and screams as something slick wiggles past the side of her face. Teeth sink, or feelers cling, triggering some primal instinct from her lizard brain. Maisie drops to her knees as it traverses down her neck, clawing at whatever slippery, bisected critter has touched her fucking face, but there's nothing… just sweaty hair and leaves. Her heart palpitates, still searching psychotically for something that doesn't exist as real danger closes in. There's no shortage of horrors the Everglades can produce, but none wield a fire axe… or a cross—

“No’ohh-ahh-!”

Before she can finish a single meandering thought, a lightning bolt of pain seizes the meat of her ass. 

“F’fuuuck!”

Her left ass cheek suddenly feels like cemented hell as the rest of her body rocks forward from the shock. There's something in her backside… and above the dull, hard throb of pain is stinging sweat and bog water running into the tight wound. 

Boots crunch down several feet away. Labored breaths wet a plastic mask. Hidden eyes find her in the stifling heat of darkness.

Nausea accompanies the pain. With a whine like a dying gull, she hiccups and spits the taste of blood and stomach lining out with a growl. The initial bite of the bolt sent her teeth into the soft contours of her mouth, tearing the edge of her tongue open.  _ That fucking arrow _ — _ is it an arrow… or a bolt? Whatever it's correct terminology is it— _

_ —it fucking blows whatever it is. _

Before she can get a decent grip around the bolt stuck in her ass, a long-fingered hand coils loose hairs greased to the back of her neck in a fist. She sucks in a coughing breath as he drags her violently through the undergrowth. Maisie yelps and kicks, trying but failing to reach the arrow lodged deep inside muscle and fat, but her grip slips every time, and slowly—gradually—her left leg grows numb. No amount of jerking from her right leg staves off the firm grasp this animal has on her hair… nor on her heart.

_ Will a heart attack kill her before he does? _

A quarter-mile through cypress trees and thick, primordial soup, leaves her muscles burning and weak, fit for a carnival procession as a living rag doll. Even the desperate clawing at his wrist eventually drops to the canvas material around his thigh and then lower where she hooks her fingers in a deep pocket, refusing to let go. She'll die here before letting go...

Eventually, he finds her graveyard—finally, the Lamb sheds his wool and turns to her with leveled shoulders and a stained fire ax.

_ Charlotte’s skull cracks in a spray of blood beneath the weight of a baseball bat. Several bolts in her back wobble as her body spasms in death. Red mists the air from her skull, painting the air between her and the Lamb. His elephantine height barely moves as Maisie looks between him and the impact wrench on a plastic trolly three feet away. It’s within arm’s reach, but she can’t move. _

_ She’s frozen as her friends die around her. _

_ Simon screams something hectic—something cryptic—before the Fox throws him to the tarmac and the Tiger swiftly digs a half-inch breaker bar through his eye. Simon doesn’t scream, just goes quiet as the tool’s spun, crunching delicate structures deep within his head. His fingers drum and a work boot bounces, but then… there’s nothing.  _

_ She watches the Lamb walk observantly around the bodies of her coworkers. He toes the trolly away without a care. It slams to the floor, jolting her body and soul, only for the smell of testosterone, sweat, and fabric softener to mingle with the odorous reek of blood.  _

_ There’s nothing there to see in him but a mockery of innocence and two white lamb eyes. Between his boots, she spits vehemently and whispers _ —

"You're goin' to hell," Maisie wheezes, hissing 'fucker’ across the concrete like a glob of saliva. She blinks away dribbling sweat and blood to glare at the ground in quiet confusion. Slowly, she lifts herself up by two trembling arms when the ax stays rooted to the parking lot, unmoving. 

The swamp sits five feet away from an empty parking lot with one lone street lamp and a dead-looking gas station. This part of town might as well be Mars for all the good it does her now. But she blinks again and glares up at the white lamb mask, baring her teeth at the sinew-built monster behind it. "The fuck is this place?"

His fingers wring the neck of the fireman's ax until the  _ clack-crick _ of tacky skin echoes against lacquered wood.

Maisie eyes the visual warning, but to an exhausted mind, crowded by stress and pain, she sees no other option than to fight. Desperate, but fast enough, she swings her ankle across the ground, knocking the ax from beneath his fist. By the time it clatters to the cement, Maisie’s already thrown herself onto her feet, limping towards the dingy pit stop… eyes scalding on the Lamb's reflection in the windows. He stands, watching as she shoves and shoulders the locked door uselessly. 

For a moment, her body heat throws a fog across the glass door, masking the mirror image of her and of him—the real sheep and the fake lamb. A heartbeat later, the window to the left shatters as he looses a bolt into the store. Maisie screams until it's cut off midway by another whistle of fiberglass inches from her ear. 

"Fuck-!" She snarls while kicking out glass shards from the window sill. 

Boots follow as she crawls inside, falling into a pathetic pile of broken glass and frozen muscles. Something snaps beneath her, and a hot throng of pain sends Maisie into a poised arch of agony. 

_ The arrow… the bolt…  _

_ Oh god _ , she cries.

What's left of the arrow in her ass jabs the web of her palm and she struggles to grasp it. She loses purchase as greasy blood slickens her grip. Again, she tries, but only on the third time does she get a decent hold. It comes out in jagged increments but only hits the floor with a feather-light clatter once the Lamb is already standing above, boots braced on either side of her head. Black slits stare beside the ivory-painted eyes. For the first time, Maisie notes a spattering of blood on a white ear. Apathy, covered in spray paint and gore, observes as she pants ruggedly in a pile of window glass and weakness. 

A rubber boot sole skids away from her cheek. Two fists snatch up the front of her sports bra, exposing, for a second, hard nipples to fresh, hot air. The Lamb yanks her up, readjusts his grip in the belt loops of her denim shorts, then hurls her into a metal display shelf.

Instead of screaming, Maisie exhales a burst of pain and slumps back to the dusty, tile floor, groaning quietly. 

Muddy heat keeps her from gaining her balance. It's only when the Lamb comes back for her and throws a palm around her throat that she spies the shine of dark blood down his wrist column. He's covered in it… and so is she. The chase through the swamp shredded both of them, and it’s this realization she clings to as blood swells behind her eyes.

The Lamb chokes her up to her feet until her sneakers barely skim the floor, then, he groans, almost growling. 

"I'm—" she gags, fisting his wrist as it trembles with the strength needed to keep her aloft, "... I'm gonna'ah fuck-you-uh’p!"

Behind the white plastic, his breathing comes heavier and faster, almost… almost…

_ Fuck _ .

His lamb's face cocks to the side, observing how horror crosses her puffy cheeks and watery eyes. Implications of more than torture and death feed unspoken tension that brings her right shin between his legs in a final act of defiance. With as much strength as her feeble will can muster, Maisie goes for the balls.

Immediately, the Lamb drops her on the floor as he buckles forward, growling in pain. Behind her, it sounds like he falls to his knees, but she doesn’t wait to check for sure. It had been stiff—the thing that bashed against her shin was hard… rock solid. 

Bathing in sweaty terror, she scrambles across the floor as he reaches haphazardly for her in his gut-wrenching ball pain. 

His fingers dig around her ankle, but it’s weak.

Maisie socks him with a heel again, hitting sturdy clavicle bone which throws him off balance. It’s enough time to crawl down an aisle into some dark back room that bristles with stale heat and static buzzing. 

_ Buzzzzzzzz… _

Suddenly a wall of corpse fetor hits her in the face. 

Maisie freezes, elbow-deep in the back office's threshold, as the reek of death leaks up her nose and inside her tear ducts. She's never smelt putrefaction like this before, but that's what it is—old death, rot, pestilence, and red warning lights.

The smell infects her amygdala deep enough that when the Lamb grabs her by the ankle and drags her back down the aisle, Maisie doesn't even fight him, just stares down the stenching penumbra in stupefaction.

"My name… it’s Maisie," she says offhand, perhaps just wanting to remind someone she’s human—even if that person is her murderer. It feels like those final last words people utter before the ax comes down on their trachea, but the way his fingers stroke the ball of her ankle as he pulls her towards the center of the store says the ax isn't for her… at least not yet…

Paranoia-based implications turn to promises as he drops to his knees, straddling her bloody backside with a swollen exhale. 

"...it's Maisie," she murmurs into the sandy linoleum tiles. 

The Lamb gives a throaty snarl of acknowledgement before laying his hot palms over her naked shoulders. Hard fingers press and dig into tight muscles in a parody of a lover's massage. He scrapes and bruises lines down her back, snapping her bra's elastic with a finger until touching the damp, denim hem above her ass.

Blood has dried where his cross-bolt struck gold, but it's the insinuation of what he’s going to do that hurts more. As he slides a hand beneath her stomach to the wrinkled front of her overalls, she sobs, preparing for the stiff line he follows beneath the denim.

A large piece of glass just outside of reach mocks her, just like the impact wrench had at the garage...

The Lamb snaps the brass button on the side of her hip until the coverall shorts loosen against his plundering fingers. His nails dig past her underwear and over the sweaty, smooth skin of her mound slowly… nearly begging her to fight back with all the extra time he's giving. 

Maisie lies limp, too weak to do more than twitch and tremble beneath his hands as he massages her cunt and the round, naked heft of her hip. The Lamb relieves her of her overalls and underwear, sliding them inch by inch down the curve of her ass almost ritualistically, breathing heavily all the while. 

When the denim peels away from the hole in her left cheek, Maisie whimpers. The Lamb groans—damp behind the mask—and whistles.

"Mur-murderer...  _ rapist _ ," she pants into the tiles.

His fingers halt in the rolled up denim bunched beneath the bottom heft of her ass. Something grinds behind the mask, maybe his teeth…  _ maybe his pride _ … but the label seems to trigger something in him, because he flips her over, ignoring her pitiful cry of pain, and leaves her there on the floor.

Maisie lies there, overheated and coated in a layer of oily sweat, as the Lamb walks towards the back of the gas station. 

She swallows, gathering three deep breaths, and tries to roll onto her side, but the gathered underwear and overalls are more than enough to hinder her. 

Overhead static cuts out, then on. It  _ blurps _ and  _ squeals  _ in an electric thunderstorm _.  _ The radio comes over the speakers, echoing an upbeat seventies melody that brings another round of sweat out of her pores. Maisie does all she can to move onto her stomach, onto her knees, anything to get away… anything to—

The Lamb kicks her over on her back again—hard enough that her hip pulses with pain. Instinctually, she coils into a crescent moon only for him to return to the rolled up denim, yanking her clothes down her thighs, calves, and over her sneakers. Her underwear snags on one shoe but it’s left there as the white, emotionless lamb mask stares at her with snorting, frothing enthusiasm. Raw animal instinct claws at her chest as his hands grab her sports bra. But it’s when he pulls out her engraved pocket knife to saw down the middle of it that she’s hit with a sudden jolt of reality…

_ It doesn’t have to end this way. _

"W-w-what if I don't-don't struggle…" she stutters as her breasts spill open into the open air. Even without the soaking nylon, Maisie's body is suffocatingly hot, blistering with anxiety and Florida’s summer balm. "...Or, I can-can struggle more— just… just d'don't kill me."

The Lamb removes his hands from her chest, pocket knife between two bony fingers, and sits back on his heels, watching her silently. He ushers in several hard breathes beneath the  _ oh'oh'oh _ of seventies peace rock.

Maisie lays there on her back, blinking away sweat and tears, hoping this is the part where he takes her offer—where he spares her life for pussy and whatever else he might want.

A long minute stretches far into the next rich melody of lovesick lyrics until the Lamb reaches for the canvas belt around his hips. 

Her breath catches in her throat as knobby-jointed fingers unbuckle and unzip black canvas. The Lamb reaches in and unpacks a grossly long, pale-white cock, leaving it to bob and point at her in all its menacing grandeur. Maisie swallows, staring at the strawberry coloring dusting the head—the nearly translucent skin barely hiding large winding veins on its sides.

For a second, it seems like he might be working his way up her body to skull fuck her, and for a second, Maisie entertains biting off half his cock, but the Lamb recognizes that mistake and, instead, runs the pocket knife down her belly to her navel. The blade twirls in that delicate pocket of skin just enough to bring up a dot of blood—just enough to distract her as he abruptly grabs her legs and drags her over his thighs. His cock slides across the smooth sweat on her mound, resting like a crude ruler, over-measuring the depth of her cunt by several inches. Her father's knife dents the meat of her inner thigh as he pries her open… 

"I'll play along," she whispers encouragingly, hopefully.

The lamb mask nods curtly and breathes her in. By the time the next song on the radio picks up a charming, giddy tempo, she's biting her tongue and suffering quietly as inches upon inches of murderous cock cleaves her pussy in two.

_ … starry eyes, starry eyes forever shall be mine,  _ she mentally follows the song's lyrics, remembering it from high school dances and late-night drives through backwoods and podunk towns.

The Lamb blows out a heavy breath as Maisie bites her tongue, taking him to the bulb of her cervix where an obnoxious pressure builds. He's too long to force their bodies flush, but that doesn't bother him. His choppy, throaty sounds of pleasure say enough. Three-fourths of his cock is enough—more than enough. 

He pulls out with a nasal breath, and Maisie holds down nausea from the unwanted flicker of bliss and the aching arrow wound. She bites down and rolls her hips, fucking herself over several inches until they both make embarrassing sounds of pleasure.

_ When I'm alone, I hear and feel you... _

Maisie tries to gain purchase across the linoleum floor, but sweat and dust form a sleek paste beneath her skin, leaving it up to the enormous hands wrapped around her waist to secure them both as he fucks into her.

It's slow and steady—a perfect rhythm coming from anyone else. 

The Lamb takes his time sheathing another solid inch inside until his hips run closer and closer to the glistening inner folds he plunders. Several thrusts smack a knot deep inside her… and he does it just right. After a dozen taps, he hits oil, and Maisie throws her head back, scratching the floor in a white-hot surge of euphoria. __

_ Anything to mask the pain, _ she thinks, lying to herself as her hips rock over his thighs, taking more cock without mentally preparing for the repercussions.

Footsteps hit the concrete sidewalk outside, but she barely cares as the Lamb guts her with precise stabs of solid dick, a thumb quietly stroking over her slippery clit. 

Heat falls over her like misting rain, bleeding her body of sweat and fluids until her heart starts to bounce around her temples. If she dies of heat stroke, it doesn’t really matter. She's probably going to die anyway. She'd rather go on the cusp of something good than recall nothing but the past hour of misery. 

Another song fizzles over the radio—high, happy energy that moves her body into his. 

Maisie blinks in rose-tinted bliss, sees figures standing in her peripherals, but ends up moaning over a hard thrust instead of screaming. 

The Lamb only pauses a moment to acknowledge the others, before turning swiftly back to her with newfound energy. That hard, rubbing thumb and long-reaching cock fuck her harder, hungry for pussy and— 

"F'f'fuck-me-!" She cries, not knowing if it’s a command or a request for Death, but he does.

Through the convenience store's broken window, the Fox and Tiger stand and watch with ivory faces of blank voyeurism. None of them speak as the Lamb fucks her into a glistening, vulgar mess. One of them moves when she grabs at the Lamb’s knee, swaying as if to join in, only for the other to stop him with an outstretched arm. 

The Lamb grunts, fists her vulva in a tight grip, mashing her clit while ravaging her insides with hammering jerks that bring their bodies together in a collision of damp, slapping skin. 

Maisie's eyes roll back. Her spine bows as her sanity slips. 

While the others watch ominously and the Lamb bruises her cervix and clit in similar purple colors, she unravels. Beads of sweat flatten into a sheen against her naked, feverish skin. Fluids gush around shiny, pale cock. With two hurried handfuls of her damp tits, the Lamb bucks his hips and fills her with heaping doses of cum, stuttering behind plastic and euphoria.

_ …all my life I've been loo' hoo' hoo' hookin' for the magic!  _

His fingernails run red trenches across her nipples, but the pain is sweet on the tail end of a shivering orgasm. She swallows oxygen and her fluttering pulse as his cock twitches a few times inside her. 

A mudslide of bliss buries her. Bugs eat at her nerves with sugared teeth and analgesic spit. Her memories flatten into one feeling:  _ nothing… _

Darkness licks at her brain as fingers stroke her throat, her breasts, and pull softly at her nipples. She cries and moans, arching up for more. A tongue glides over the stiff tip of one aching breast, but it’s all a haze, and it’s all meaningless. 

Lost in heatstroke… or pleasure… or some sick combination of both, she only comes to from her stupor when the Lamb is back on his feet, cock zipped away, and that ax head skimming noisily over the tiles. 

Maisie lifts her hands uselessly over her face, expecting it to come down on her forehead, but the Lamb hands it to the Fox with a soft wheeze of air. The white mask turns to the others standing just outside the busted window—both tiger and fox faces watching her attempt to sit up. 

The Lamb catches a pair of keys midair. Who gives them to him, she can't remember because of the blood rushing to her head, but he crouches down and drops them in her palm with a silent nod… then stands and… leaves…

This time, the radio plays a melancholy synth track from the early eighties just to drive the sorry state she finds herself in home. She watches the trio of animals walk off into the dark, depthless Florida Everglades, leaving her the keys to...

Maisie flips them over in her hand and sneers.

_ Applebottom Towing Company _ reads across the dongle—Simon’s pickup. She wishes more than death upon the Lamb and his animal brethren, but she hopes for AC and a cold shower more.

Eventually, she makes her way to the tow truck, naked, covered in grit and oozing cum, a tiny, ticklish river of blood running down the back of her thigh from the opened arrow wound. Cold, recycled air that smells like nicotine tar and body odor hits her, but nothing since now has felt so delicious. 

She relishes the slowing of her heart and the abating headache behind her eyes. 

Maisie savors the gentle rumble of the engine through her bare feet and the bucket seat, smiling as she pictures what she'll do when the Lamb inevitably tracks her down. A man like that doesn’t let their victims live out their days free from torment. There's no escaping this that easily, but she'll be ready. Next time, it'll be him on the floor. It'll be him begging for mercy… 

…She’ll get her father’s pocket knife back.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. All typos are my own. If you have time, please let me know what you think. <3
> 
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